Page 10 of Consort's Glory
“I am not important enough to warrant that sort of attention,” she replied, the slightest edge of panic breaking through her calm. “If anything, that may put me more at risk.” She swallowed. “Besides, you’re the sovereign. You have better things to do than keeping an eye on one insignificant witch. I’m not one of your people. The responsibility for my safety doesn’t belong to you.”
He choked back his incredulous scoff and carefully leaned down, bringing them nearly nose to nose. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.
“Darling witch,” he murmured, daring to trace a wicked silver clawtip down the straight line of her pert nose, “I decide what is important and what is not; what belongs to me and what does not. As of this moment, your welfare, your happiness, your safety, your comfort — all of it belongs to me. Are we clear?”
Her lips, lush and rosebud-shaped, parted as if to speak; intent even now, with his claws so close to her throat, to argue. The temptation to silence her with a swift nip of his fangs was overwhelming, but Theodore settled for the lesser pleasure of pressing the tip of his silver claw against the cushion of her lower lip.
Mercy, he thought. But there was no mercy in Margot’s excruciating softness.
Infusing his voice with as much authority as he could muster, he told her, “No. I am not changing my mind. So long as you are in the Protectorate, you agreed to live by my laws, under my protection. It’s not my problem if you did not expect me to handle those things personally.”
He pressed his claw more firmly against the delicate skin of her lip, watching with rapt attention as her mouth opened ever-so-slightly. Sucking in a breath brought her scent into his lungs — luscious, with the bite of green things and something deeper, familiar. It was dampened by what he recognized as over-the-counter scent blockers and the competing smells of fire retardant foam and ash, but he would recognize the scent of her anywhere.
“If it disturbs you so much, you can leave my territory immediately,” he bluffed. “Go back to the Collective right now and never come back. I’ll arrange for an m-gate for you. You could be back in your grandmother’s cold embrace by midnight.”
It was a dare he had no intention of letting her take, of course. If she left the Protectorate, he wouldn’t have even the slimmest chance to win her back to his side. Worse, she would be outside the reach of his protection.
But he wanted to see what she would do. He knew so little about the woman who was his heart, the reason he’d done everything; built what he had, taken the seat of power so young. Was she the type of woman who would fall back, regroup, gather her allies? Or was she the sort who stood her ground, fought back?
He had his answer when an arc of electricity jumped from the rosy flesh of her lip to the silver tip of his claw. He jerked his finger back reflexively, nerves smarting, and bared his upper and lower fangs with a hiss of warning.
“I’m not leaving San Francisco,” she answered, annoyingly unaffected by his flash of fang.
“Watch it, darling,” he warned, flexing his fingers. “That little shock could be considered an act of aggression. I usually demand blood for that sort of thing.”
She didn’t blink. “Don’t use your claws on me if you don’t want me to use mine on you.”
Glory save me.
It didn’t matter that she was covered in dust and blood. He was suddenly painfully hard.
Showing her his fangs one last time, he turned to curl his fingers around the nape of her neck, enclosing her in the warmth of his leather-covered palm. “In the car, Healer Goode,” he growled, steering her towards the sleek black vehicle half hidden beneath the shadow of a massive eucalyptus, “before I bite you.”
She stiffened. “The sovereign would never—”
“Oh, the sovereign would.” He breathed deep. “Don’t tempt me, darling.”
She was tense under his hand, but didn’t fight him as he guided her around the fire engine and towards the car. Kaz leaned with deceptive ease against the hood, his hulking form nearly blending into the shadows.
He felt it when Margot caught sight of Kaz. A little jolt ran through her, the delicate muscle and bone under his palm stiffening with surprise. Giving her nape a gentle, reassuring squeeze, he nodded to the man whose size made even Theodore look average.
“Healer Goode, this is Kazimier Roine.” He watched Kaz straighten and step away from the car, into the pale orange pool of light from the street lamp. “Kaz, this is Healer Goode. We’re taking her home.”
Kaz was the same height as Theodore, but broader, every muscle and tendon honed to deadly perfection. He had a beautiful, aristocratic face at odds with his usual attire of jeans and t-shirts and a beaten leather jacket, and skin of strikingly luminous green. His hair, raven black, was long and pulled back into a loose braid.
Unlike Theodore, he didn’t bother with gloves to hide his natural claws. Those claws flexed against the leather of his jacket’s sleeves as he uncrossed his arms.
Theodore wondered what Margot saw in Kaz that made her first tense, then, hardly a second after he stepped into the light, relax. Most people didn’t have that sort of reaction to orcs, half-blooded or not.
In a voice that held an irritating amount of relief, she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kaz.”
“Likewise, Healer Goode.”
She peered up at him. “Are you from the Orclind?”
Kaz tilted his head in a small nod. “My mother lived in Boise, but her family followed the migration around the borders.”
Margot’s smile was small and a little sad. “The Goodeland is on the border. I grew up around a lot of orc families.”
